Close Call
by bemj11
Summary: Inspector Lestrade requests Watson's presence at a hospital, but the last thing the doctor expected to find was that the Inspector was injured and refusing to let anyone other than Watson anywhere near his arm.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: This is set shortly after two of my other stories, _A Sense of Purpose _and _Police Surgeon? _Also, I have, in case anyone is interested, a sort of timeline for the Sherlock Holmes stories I have written posted on my profile, since they haven't been written or published in chronological order.

* * *

I pondered the message the constable had brought.

"_Inspector Lestrade sent me to ask you to come to St. Bart's and to bring your medical bag." The constable rattled off. He nodded briskly and started back into the rain._

"_Will you stay and have a cup of tea before you go back out?" I asked. "Mrs. Hudson just brought up a fresh pot, and someone should enjoy it."_

_The constable shook his head. "Thank you, but I have to go. I was to go for you and then the Inspector's wife, sir."_

Lestrade had sent him for me first, and then his wife. The Inspector himself was injured, then, and if he felt his wife needed to be informed, it must have been serious.

Another constable was waiting for me at the entrance to the hospital. "This way, sir." He said promptly. "Down the hall and to your left, listen for the sound of an argument." He hesitated. "I'd hurry, Doctor, if I was you."

I nodded, and increased my pace.

I quickly found the right room, directed more by of the sounds of turmoil emanating from it than anything else.

Lestrade was in one of the beds, sitting against the headboard, his right arm clutched close to his side and bleeding all over the place. His shirt was missing, so I gathered he had been unconscious, and they had at least gotten a chance to look at his arm before he had awakened and reacted this way. There were quite a number of nurses, several large men, and a Dr. Mills circled around him, though none of them seemed to want to get within the reach of the man's good arm.

"Now, Inspector," Mills was trying to calm the man down and distract him at the same time, while one of the nurses to Lestrade's right waited discretely for a chance to drug him in an effort to calm him down. I felt myself frowning in disapproval.

Lestrade glared at the man. "If I'd been conscious, they'd never have brought me here." He threw the insult at the doctor. "I wouldn't come here if my life depended on it."

"Your life _does_ depend on it, Inspector, from what I've seen of your injury." Mills informed the man coolly.

Lestrade jerked around and slapped the needle out of the nurses' hand with his left. "I'm injured, Miss, not stupid." He all but snarled.

I wondered what on earth was going on. I knew from experience that Lestrade made a terrible patient, but this was ridiculous even for him. I raised my voice to carry through the small crowd that had assembled. "Lestrade!"

His head shot up, and I was not the only person who watched in surprise as he shot off the bed and headed straight for me. He quickly ducked behind me, putting me between him and the crowd.

His face lost what little color it had and he swayed. His left hand darted out. He steadied very little as he gripped my jacket, but managed to stay upright, and I wondered at his strange behavior.

"Glad you're here." He mumbled, still trying to at least sound polite. "Sorry to call you out on a day like this."

"Not at all." I assured him. Dr. Mills was waiting, seeing that his patient had calmed in my presence. He would wait, and hoped I could convince the Inspector to let the doctor treat him.

"You look about done in, Inspector, why don't you have a seat and tell me why I'm here."

He let me escort him to a chair, and he fell more than sat into it. He did not relinquish his hold on my jacket, but rather adjusted it until he was gripping my sleeve near my wrist rather than near my shoulder, as he had been.

He managed to look a bit uncomfortable. "I was wondering if you'd have a look at my arm." He said in that same tone he used when he asked Holmes to look at a case that knew the man would consider trivial and beneath him, but he would ask because he needed help anyway.

"Did Dr. Mills look at it?" I asked gently. "He _is_ your attending physician." A flash of alarm barely crossed his features, and he looked embarrassed.

"Would you take a look anyway?" He tried to make it sound unimportant, but he was worried. That in turn worried me.

"Certainly." I said, setting my medical bag on the bed nearby. He breathed a sigh of relief as I agreed. I looked over at Dr. Mills, who merely nodded. He would not begrudge a second opinion if it made the Inspector easier to treat later. He was also confident of his diagnosis.

I wiped away the blood that was covering his arm, and it was all I could do not to reac to what I saw.

Someone had nearly taken his arm off. A deep gash crossed his upper arm, and nearly sank to the bone. I wondered how the man had still managed to get back onto his feet upon my arrival, or even regain consciousness, for that matter, with the amount of blood he must have lost.

"I need my other arm, Lestrade." I said gently, and the man colored and released my sleeve. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lestrade's wife arrive. Dr. Mills went to her, and I pushed her out of my mind. He could deal with her for now.

Lestrade was trying not to ask. He was also trying not to pass out. "This is bad, Lestrade. What on earth were you doing?"

"Chasing the head of a counterfeiting gang around a meat shop." He replied with a shudder. "He managed to escape when I passed out the first time." He fell silent, struggling with the question he so badly needed and feared the answer to.

"Well?" The Inspector finally asked. He was terribly afraid of what I might say, as much as he tried to hide it.

I sighed. "I don't doubt there's going to be a nasty infection, and it could very well kill you if you aren't careful." I told him. Lestrade had never been one to flinch from the truth just because it was unpleasant. "And this certainly isn't 'just another addition to your collection of battle scars,' as Bradstreet would say. You probably won't be able to use your arm for some time; in fact, by the time it's finally healed, you'll probably have to _relearn_ how to use it. And then it's still going to cause some pain." I frowned as the Inspector actually looked _relieved_ at my pronouncement.

A second later, I understood why.

"You want to do _what?"_ His wife sounded stricken, terrified, and enraged all at once. "Take it off?"

I turned back to eye Lestrade, who now looked even paler. "Did Dr. Mills look at your arm?" I asked in a low tone. The Inspector simply nodded.

"He said that the risk of infection was too great." He said wearily. "He wanted to amputate it."

No wonder he had been so hostile back on the bed. I frowned. "He may very well be right." I said. "His training is to focus on saving the life, not just trying to save the arm. This is not going to be fun."

He was fading on me. I looked over towards his wife; she was having it out with Dr. Mills, and had the full attention of the nurses and everyone else present.

"You have a right to specify who treats you." I said firmly, coming to a decision. Dr. Mills, while he meant well, was also the jealous type when it came to disagreements over how a patient should be treated. "I assume you'd like to stay conscious as long as possible." I was digging in my bag, quietly, looking for the things I would need.

He nodded, but looked about ready to fall over. "This is going to sting." I said as I began cleaning his arm.

He winced. "Always does." Came the pained reply. He did not cry out then, nor through the whole process. I was taking extra precautions; infection was a given here, but I could at least try to minimize it.

His left hand clenched as I began stitching up his arm; I wondered that no one had noticed what I was doing yet. I wasn't paying attention to Dr. Mills or any of them, though, so they could have been building a sailing ship in the middle of the room and I probably would not have been aware of it. I had other concerns right now.

The Inspector was quiet as I sewed up the massive injury, and I wondered how much longer he could keep himself conscious. By all rights, he should have been out long before now.

I finished bandaging the wound, then bound his arm to his side as an afterthought. It was not in Lestrade's nature to keep still when injured. At least this way he would not be able to get his arm free without help, and I knew for a fact his wife would not render him assistance in that area.

He passed out, then, and I had to catch him to keep him from falling out of the chair.

I realized then that Lestrade's wife was now arguing with Inspector Gregson. Bradstreet and Hopkins were there with him, but stood somewhat apart with cowed expressions as Gregson 'tried' to calm her down. Someone had summoned the Inspectors, and it seemed they had caught on pretty quickly to what was happening and were helping Lestrade's wife keep Dr. Mills and his people occupied.

"Mrs. Lestrade!" I called, and the woman shot one last venemous look at Dr. Mills and darted over to join us. As everyone else pulled themselves back together, I began to explain to her the nature of her husband's injury.

"I'll take him home." She said decisively, when I had finished. "He'll do better there than here."

I nodded. "You'll keep me informed, of course."

She smiled. "Stop by around suppertime and you can have his food if he's not up to it." She said mischievously, but her eyes were still worried. Lestrade still had a long way to go.

Mills caught up with us then, eyes flashing in his anger as he took in my handiwork. "You're taking a terrible risk." Was all he said. "And I won't be held responsible for what happens, Dr. Watson."

"I am aware of that." I replied. "But the man has a wife and three children at home. He can't afford to be disabled."

"Can he afford to die when that infection sets in?" Mills snapped, and beside me Lestrade's wife paled. Gregson swallowed nervously and shifted his weight as the doctor stormed off.

"Is it that bad, Doctor?" He asked me. I sighed.

"He's certainly not going to be of any use to Scotland Yard for a while." I admitted. "He needs time to recover."

Gregson shrugged. "If it's a problem for him to be off, we'll just point out that the man hasn't taken a holiday since he joined the force." He said easily. "They can't really begrudge him time off."

"Good." I said. "It'll still be touch and go, but I think he'll pull through."

"This is Giles Lestrade, after all." His wife finally said. Her tone was firm, and I wondered if the man would dare to die without his wife's permission. From what I knew of the woman, it would have been bad idea.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade's middle child opened the door and greeted me with a smile. "Hello, Doctor Watson." She said cheerfully. "Come in. You're in time for supper."

Amy Lestrade had grown into a lovely young woman, though she, like her siblings, had gotten her size from her father. She had her father's dark eyes and her mother's hair, and moved with a grace and ease of manner that suggested that she found her small size an advantage.

"Olivia decided to cook your favorite when Ma said you might drop in on us." She said as she took my hat and coat. "She's hoping for some stories, I think."

Lestrade's youngest had taken an interest in my profession, and I usually did not manage to leave the house until I had obliged her with the details of one of the cases I had treated over the years. Commonplace or unusual to the point of seeming unreal made no difference to her, for she listened with rapt attention to all of them.

"Ma's upstairs with Da." Amy said, and I thanked her and headed upstairs.

Lestrade's wife didn't bother with a greeting. "He's already delirious." She said as I entered their bedroom.

I sighed and rolled up my sleeves. It was going to be a long night.

Three hours later there was a rap on the door, and Amy entered with a plate of food, her sister not far behind.

"We brought supper up." Amy informed us. "You both need to eat."

"If you tell us what to do, we can watch him while you eat." Olivia added. Her tone was a frightening combination of her parents that dared you to defy her.

"We're trying to lower his body temperature." I said. The girls were attentive, and a few minutes later they had relieved us.

Lestrade's wife didn't hesitate at the thought of food, and I wondered when she had last eaten. "You could have sent a message, Mrs. Lestrade." I said as I started on my own meal.

"Elisabeth." She corrected. "He suddenly took a turn for the worse about an hour before you arrived, and I was too busy." She looked tired as she mechanically finished her meal. "Thank you." She said abruptly. "If you hadn't been there, that other doctor wanted to-" She broke off, and looked away. After a few seconds, she continued.

"You may have your doubts and regrets about your own decision, and maybe it _would have_ saved him the infection and the fever and the pain, but it would have been doing him no favors. Giles is a Yarder, through and through. The thought of him being unable to work…" She took a deep breath. "I don't know what will happen if he lives long enough to retire." She admitted.

I wondered how she had sensed the doubts that had been building in me as we battled Lestrade's fever. I didn't know how she had known I was wondering if I had done the right thing, but I appreciated the reassurance, even if I was hesitant to accept it.

Lestrade still had a long way to go.

Amy scattered with the plates as her mother and I took over the fight, but Olivia stayed, instinctively lending a hand when and where it was most needed. In the back of my mind I wondered if she had an interest in the medical profession.

She didn't flinch as we began to change the bandages, and though she blanched when suddenly her father cried out and jerked, she also moved to restrain him without thinking twice about what she was doing.

Certainly having a third person there made the horrible hours pass just a little bit more easily.

The fever broke with the dawn, at last, and the three of us breathed a sigh of relief. Olivia immediately started pouring out the tea that her sister had brought up not an hour ago. She passed a cup to me, then to her mother, and finally poured her own.

We drank in relieved silence.

"If you don't need me right now," Olivia said as she finished her cup and began gathering the tray and tea things together, "I'll see about some breakfast."

I watched in admiration as the girl left. If she was tired from the night, it didn't show.

"Takes after her father." Lestrade's wife said. "If there's something to be done, she'll do it without an indication of how tired she really is." She ran a hand through now tangled hair. "He's out of danger?"

"For now." I confirmed. "But you still need to keep a close eye on him." She nodded briskly, and I wondered which of them had picked up that particular business-like nod from the other.

"Then you can stay for breakfast, and catch some sleep on the couch while you're waiting for it to be ready." She frowned at me. "I know you aren't about to take the day off just because you were up all night, but you can at least rest a little bit."

I didn't argue with the woman, for it wouldn't have done any good, but followed her downstairs.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	3. Chapter 3

He was looking better the next time I stopped by.

It was a funny thing, that people often assumed that better automatically meant good. Lestrade looked better, but he was also far from looking good.

He was still very pale, and he had a fever again, though it was mercifully nowhere near what it had been. He was asleep now, and quiet and very still. He looked frail, vulnerable.

The man may have been smaller than just about everyone down at the Yard. He may have had to look up at most of the people he talked to. I remembered that Holmes used to loom over him at times.

But the man had never given the impression that he was not fully capable of taking care of himself, and if you knew him, you also knew that the attitude that suggested that he was, in fact, quite capable of handling himself was in reality a warning that he was not someone to mess with.

But lying here, half conscious and far too still, with his hair soaked with sweat and his arm still pinned to his side, he looked vulnerable.

His daughter had been helping her mother change the bandaging. I had to admit the job was well done. Olivia seemed to be developing a talent for such work, and I made a note to compliment her on the job.

I was pressed into staying for dinner again. I couldn't say I minded staying; the Lestrade women were friendly, welcoming, and seemed to enjoy my company just as much as I enjoyed theirs.

"That last dressing was well done." I commented as we started eating. Olivia flushed, and muttered a thank you into her stew.

"Olivia did most of the work on that one." Mrs. Lestrade admitted, and her daughter blushed even more. "I just made sure he held still."

"Has he been awake at all?" I asked before starting on my own stew. It was good. It reminded me of Mary's cooking.

"Off and on, but not for very long and he's not been very alert either." His wife replied. "He's so weak."

"He lost a lot of blood." I reminded her. Then I realized I was sitting there discussing Lestrade's medical condition with his family over a meal.

To their credit, none of them seemed bothered by the discussion. They didn't seem to think there was anything odd about it either.

"Ma said something about Da not being able to use his arm very well anymore." Olivia spoke up.

"There was some muscle damage." I explained. "He'll have to relearn to use it, at the least." Olivia was interested, and before I knew it I was explaining the details of what that would involve and how they could help their father while that was happening.

We sat around the table for some time after we had finished eating.

They were worried down at the Yard; I reassured Hopkins and Bradstreet to the best of my ability. Hopkins' eyes were wide as he recalled the scene at the hospital.

"They wanted to take his arm _off_, Doctor." He shuddered. "It would've been the end of his career in the Yard."

"He'd never let anyone try to make allowances for it." Bradstreet agreed. "Too stubborn and proud for that."

It was another reminder that Lestrade had _wanted_ the solution I had chosen. I still wondered if he would consider it worth it in the end.

I hoped I had made the right choice.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: I should have mentioned earlier, this story is set after the death of Watson's wife, and after my other stories _A Sense of Purpose_ and _Police Surgeon_, and before Holmes' return from the dead. I actually have a time line posted on my profile, so if you have any question as to the order in which my stories occur, don't hesitate to check that out. Thanks.

* * *

Lestrade was awake the next time I visited. His eyes followed me as I entered, but he remained still.

"Good morning." I joked. He managed a weak smile. "How are you feeling?"

"My arm is killing me." He admitted. "The only thing worse is when Lizzie changes the bandaging. She still insists on treating it with that blasted-" He didn't finish; he didn't have the energy. He didn't know what the stuff was anyway, just that it was strong enough to prevent most of the infections he should have gotten from job related injuries over the years. He claimed he didn't _want_ to know what it was.

I had determined that the stuff wouldn't do any harm, and would probably do _some_ good. Still, it couldn't have felt pleasant.

"Mind if I take a look?" I asked politely. He sighed in response.

"Yes, but go ahead." He gave permission, and I began unwrapping his arm. He paled as I removed the last of the bandages, and swallowed back a moan.

"Whatever that stuff is, it seems to have eliminated the last of the infection." I commented. "You're healing well, Lestrade. You just need to give it time."

"And then pray it isn't useless anyway." He muttered darkly, then he realized he had spoken. "I _am_ grateful." He hurried to assure me. "I just-" He hesitated. "He seemed so sure that I would never be able to use it again."

"It is going to be difficult, certainly." I told him. "And a lot of work. But Lestrade, if there's anyone stubborn enough to recover something like this, it's you."

He didn't believe me, but was too tired to argue. "Thanks." He said instead.

I set to putting my medical supplies away, and asked a question. "Your daughter seems to have some interest in medicine. I thought I would let her borrow this, if you don't mind."

He stared for a moment at the book I held out to him. Then he shook his head. "No, I don't mind."

When presented with it, Olivia stared at the book with wide eyes. "Really?" She asked. I nodded, and she burst into a grin. "Thank you." She said, taking the book reverently.

Then she darted off into the sitting room.

Elisabeth laughed. "We won't be able to get her nose out of that now." She informed me. "Come have a cup of tea before you go."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	5. Chapter 5

"You shouldn't be up!" I heard Elisabeth from downstairs. "I don't care if the Queen of England needs your help, I'm tired of you going off half well and coming back home half dead!"

Olivia was studiously pouring over the book I had left her. Amy looked up at the ceiling. "She's trying to ignore them." She explained, nodding towards her sister. "You'd better go keep Ma from killing him."

I went up the stairs and paused in the open doorway. Lestrade was up, barely, and leaning against the wall while his wife laced up his shoes. His face was pale, and he looked ready to drop any second.

"_Gregson_ sent that message, Lizzie." He managed. "He wouldn't have sent it if it weren't urgent."

"You haven't been out of bed since you were injured." The woman protested. All the same, she was undoing the bandages that held his arm against his arm. She helped him into his shirt and buttoned it up. His jacket was next. "Tell Giles he's being an idiot, Doctor."

"You really shouldn't be up." I said sternly.

Lestrade sighed. "I know. But Gregson sent a telegraph saying they needed me down at the Yard, and he knows I shouldn't be up."

"And he sent the message anyway." I realized. "I will escort you there."

The man actually looked _grateful_. His wife looked resigned. "I'm binding your arm back up." She informed him, and he didn't argue. Then she stopped and looked at him.

"Come back." She finally said, and pulled him into a hug. I stepped back into the hall to give them some privacy.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


End file.
